


Taste Of Copper  (ABANDONED)

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Finish Me [14]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Evil Mary, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Fixation, Some Mentions of F/M not described, Spit Kink, Vampire Mary, Vampire Sex, Vampire Sherlock, Violence, Werewolf John, Werewolf Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2888021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s injury in Afghanistan required a transfusion, but none was available so he received vampire saliva, or VS, intravenously to make his body increase blood production. This means John is a high candidate for becoming a Blusher- a vampire bite addict. What he doesn’t realize is that his flatmate of two years is a very ancient vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N This starts after Ep 5. Reichenbach Falls has not happened. Nothing has changed… from John’s POV. He’s just that unobservant ;)**

 

John watched Sherlock move about the room, studying seemingly unimportant things and letting out small humming sounds of interest or growls of frustration. At one point he squatted down to study a smudge of blood for so long that Lestrade wandered over to see if he was okay.

“You hungry or something?” Lestrade asked.

“He’s always hungry,” John scoffed, “Never eats during a case, you know that.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade nodded, “Dangerous, that is.”

“I’m not a childe, Lestrade,” Sherlock scoffed, standing quickly, “I can control myself.”

“No one can control hunger, Sherlock,” John replied, “It’s basic survival. You can’t survive on tea and curiousity.”

“Oh, get a room!” Anderson snarled.

“Anderson!” Lestrade snapped, “Shut it!”

“His crush is becoming intolerable,” Sherlock replied, twirling to face Lestrade, “He stares knives through my back! I’ll not work like this!”

Sherlock stormed out of the room angrily with John hot on his heels.

“Wait!” Lestrade shouted, “At least tell me what you found!”

“Get Anderson therapy first!” Sherlock snapped.

“There could be another murder by then!” Lestrade shouted, rushing down the steps after them both, “Three women in three nights, Sherlock!”

Sherlock paused and John pleaded softly for his understanding. _Lives_ were at stake, no matter how annoying Anderson was. _Besides_ , John thought, _A crush? Really? Why does Sherlock always think people are crushing on him? First me, then The Woman, now Anderson? And turns out The Woman was gay! Just using him! Although even I thought otherwise, and I’m far more experienced with women than he is._

Anderson, meanwhile had come crashing down the stairs after them, his eyes wild and his teeth gritted in outrage.

“Back up to the scene!” Lestrade shouted at him.

“I’m done pandering to him!” Anderson raged, “He’s constantly showing off, _flaunting_ himself! Preening like a peacock!”

John snorted. He couldn’t deny all that. Neither could Sherlock, who merely narrowed his eyes at Lestrade as if his point had been proven. John shook his head in amusement. Sherlock wasn’t the sort who understood people’s motivations for things, especially when they were profoundly affected by emotions. He could vaguely understand jealousy- clearly at play here- and anger or revenge, but sadly anything else was lost on him.

“The women were killed by a vampire,” Sherlock stated, “Which is why Anderson is so out of control at the moment.”

“Blow it out your-!” Anderson started.

“Anderson!” Lestrade shouted, his tone clearly shocked. So was John. Anderson usually blustered and argued, but to resort to screaming obscenities?

“I suggest you get him in contact with a good rehab,” Sherlock stated climbing the stairs and passing Lestrade. He pressed into Anderson’s personal space, but the man didn’t pull back. Instead his eyes went wide and he began to pant frantically.

“Sherlock,” John started in alarm, “Maybe you should give him space.”

Sherlock reached out a hand as if he would cup Anderson’s face. The man’s eyes fluttered closed and he lifted his chin. John held his breath, eyes wide in alarm as for a moment he thought they were about to witness something profound between them. Then Sherlock’s movement quickly altered and he wiped his sleeve across Anderson’s lips.

“Lipstick?” John spluttered.

“To hide the altered colour of his lips,” Sherlock nodded, stepping back.

Anderson’s lips were a brilliant shade of red, flushed as if kiss-swollen. John’s eyes widened. He knew full-well the side-effects of Blushers- men and women who donated blood to vampires directly from their veins rather than through safer methods. Blushers were people who gave _too_ much, having become addicted to the euphoria-inducing saliva to the point they would do anything for it. The saliva increased blood production, and was a crucial aspect of medicine for that reason, but allowing too many vampires to feed off of a person at once meant the saliva couldn’t do it’s job fast enough. The end result was that the brain was denied enough blood to function well while the blood that remained in their veins struggled to keep the rest of their body alive. Suddenly Anderson’s poor thought patterns made an astounding amount of sense. He wasn’t a stupid man, he was losing brain cells to Blushing!

“He’s a Blusher,” John stammered.

Anderson’s eyes dropped in shame while Lestrade sighed miserably, “You should have told me right away, Philip. You know this was your last strike. If you’d said something I could have sent you to rehab. Now I’m going ot have to take this to the board.”

“Technically _you_ didn’t figure it out,” Sherlock replied, “And he’s only been keeping it a secret for sixteen hours. Frankly his secrecy was crucial to this case. If I hadn’t noticed him Blushing I’d have never realized a vampire was part of this scenario.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t you who triggered him?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” John asked in confusion.

“He deals with my presence well enough,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Yeah, but you’re starved today. Even I can tell. Look how pale your lips are!” Lestrade replied.

Sherlock shook his head, “He’s used to me, and my rejection. The vampire who is committing these murders- for the sake of killing, not for food- is someone who has fed off of him before. Sadly that doesn’t lower your searching grounds as he’s let hundreds of vampires feed off of him. The scent of the most recent one is your killer. He was careful to leave no saliva at the scene- the only way of scenting another vampire as you know- but he _has_ managed to leave some on Anderson. Blushers can sense the presence of a vampire who has fed off of them far more effectively than another vampire can, he knew from the first murder that a vampire was the killer and unconsciously sought him or her out.”

“Her,” Anderson said, “She… _she_ was the killer?! I swear, I had no idea!”

“You wouldn’t,” Sherlock stated, stepping back with a sigh, “It’s all unconscious, the hindbrain caring for your addict’s needs. Lestrade I suggest you get Anderson to provide you with a sketch before his damaged brain forgets what she looks like. John, we’re leaving.”

John, however, had frozen in place while listening to the confusion conversation before him.

“Sherlock? What’s Lestrade talking about?”

Sherlock gave him a baffled look, “Lestrade wasn’t talking. I was. Are you okay? You appear… panicked.”

John was barely stopping himself from hyperventilating, backing slowly down the steps while his sweaty hands gripped at the railing.

“He said you were hungry.”

“Well, yes…”

“That your lips were pale from it.”

“Yes.”

“They are pale.”

“Yes, we’ve established that. Lestrade, I think you should call an ambulance for John.”

“He said you could have triggered Anderson.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, “John I think you should sit down. You’re very pale and…”

“ _You_ said he was used to you.”

“He is. He’s known me since before he became a Blusher.”

“You affect him _because_ he’s a Blusher.”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock replied, “Except he’s used to me. I’ve never fed off of him.”

“You rejected him,” John stated, having run out of stairs and backed into a wall on the first floor. He leaned against it as panic clawed at his chest.

“Yes.”

“As... as a vampire.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, “Why don’t you sit down? John, I’m concerned you’re…”

John bolted. Full blown panic curled inside of him such as he hadn’t felt since Afghanistan. He could feel his skin crawling, his blood turning hot and wild in his veins until he felt like they would explode. He bolted down an alleyway and tugged up a sleeve, staring at the veins in his wrist in terror as he frantically scratched at them. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a bulge from the veins on the back of his hand and screamed before his medical instincts told him that was simply impossible. He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and stared at his hand again. No bulging veins about to explode blood all over the place. His skin had claw marks on both wrist and the back of his opposite hand. People were gathered in the mouth of the alley staring at him. One was on the phone muttering about a druggy freaking out and giving someone the address. The police would be on their way.

_Lestrade is right around the damn corner with Sherlock. He’ll bring Sherlock!_

John took a few deep breaths again and faced the crowd.

“Sorry about that folks,” John called, “Just had a moment there. Remembering battle. Was in Afghanistan. War hero. I should probably get home and have a cuppa…”

John pushed through them and headed down the street at a fast trot. A car pulled up beside him.

“John!”

_Damn it._

John glanced anxiously aside. Sherlock wasn’t with him. John headed for the car and Lestrade came to a full stop, frowning at him in concern.

“What happened?” Lestrade asked, “Sherlock freaked out after you did. Said he’d made a _miscalculation_. Are you okay? Is he?”

“I… I had a flashback,” John ran his fingers through his hair, “Can I bum a ride home?”

“Sure,” Lestrade replied with a frown, “Considering you’re freaking me out I think I can make a detour.”

John hesitated to get in the car. Lestrade frowned at him, “There something else?”

“Can you come inside with me when we get there?” John asked, fully aware of people staring at him, but he couldn’t- wouldn’t- get in that car until he was sure Lestrade was on board. His skin was still crawling and panic wasn’t far off. Put him in a small space without reassurance and he might hurt his friend when he panicked again.

“Shit, John, I’m on duty. Sherlock’s probably there by now. You won’t be alone,” Lestrade replied with a frown.

“I know I… look, I can’t explain this right now, but I can’t be alone with him,” John whispered, leaning closer to the window to be heard over the traffic.

“With Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, “You two okay?”

“No. We’re not. I’ve been an idiot and… look, I need you to come inside with me.”

“Okay,” Lestrade sighed, “Okay, I’ll do it. Let me phone Sally.”

John climbed into the car and Lestrade started driving.

“Call Sally,” He ordered the car’s system.

“Calling Sally,” The mechanical voice stated.

John was still taking slow breaths, hands clenching and uncleanching.

“Greg? The hell is going on,” Sally asked, “I kept the Freak here as long as I could but he was rambling about having to pack up and move.”

“He doesn’t have to leave,” John spat out, “I’m the one with the problem. I’ll go.”

“You two breaking up?” Sally asked.

“I’m not is fucking _Blusher!_ ” John shouted angrily.

Silence. Lestrade pulled over again, “Sally, cover for me at the station. Got a problem here. Not sure if I’ll be reporting it yet so tell them it’s Sherlock and I’ll adjust it to be official if it needs to be done.”

“You got it.”

Sally disconnected and Lestrade stared out the front window for a moment in silence. John took a few more steadying breaths, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back.

“You need to tell me what’s going on. You’ve never used that word about Sherlock before. I know full well he doesn’t feed off people- so do you- so what the hell are you saying that for? Why are one of you moving?”

“I didn’t know,” John wheezed, trying and failing to get his breathing under control.

“Didn’t know what?” Lestrade pressed, “You thought he had a donor somewhere? That it was Anderson? Is this jealously or something? He’s never bit him. Ever. They’re not a thing and never were.”

John shook his head, “I didn’t know he was a vampire.”

“How the hell do you miss that?” Lestrade asked with a bitter laugh, “Come on, John. The frightening intelligence? The pale skin? The lack of sleeping? Ever?”

“He goes in his room for hours. Silent. I thought he was sleeping then.”

“The body parts in the fridge instead of food?”

“There’s food in the fridge.”

“It’s _your_ food. Or stuff for experiments. Or stuff Mrs. Hudson foolishly entrusted to him.”

“Didn’t know,” John rubbed at his eyes with the heals of his hands.

“He never eats _food_.”

“He does. We’ve eaten together.”

Lestrade considered that for a moment and then shook his head, “If he has an excess of blood he can digest regular food, but he has to gorge on blood first. He’s eaten more since he met you, so I just thought you were feeding him.”

“My lips have been red?” John asked, his voice cracking as he stared at Lestrade in terror.

“No, but there are _other_ ways to donate blood to a vampire than straight up,” Lestrade shrugged, “If you were using a kit you wouldn’t get any saliva in your system, so no red lips. Hell, that’s how I give him blood- in a totally _not sexy_ way.”

John blinked, “You said he doesn’t feed from people.”

“Not directly, but that’s how I pay him for his help on cases. Did you think he did it for _free_?”

“Sally said…”

“Sally doesn’t get why I don’t let him get me off at the same time, especially considering the all the times he’s outed by wife for cheating. She figures if I’m going to drain a vein I might as well get a good splurge out of it.”

John blinked. He knew full well that being bitten was erotic. Vampire saliva had a slight aphrodesiac in it, not to mention the fact it increased blood production dramatically. If the vampire drank slowly that excess blood had to go somewhere. It usually went to swell tissues used for sex such as the nipples and penis or clitoris. Most Blushers were as addicted to the rush of getting off as they were to the high feeling of blood supply swelling and the dropping.

“I’m not gay,” John stated.

“Now _that’s_ what you usually say,” Lestrade sighed, “Look, I get that this is a shock… though not quite _how_ … but you need to calm down. Sherlock probably thinks you’re anti-vampire or something. Hell, _I’m_ starting to think that.”

“I am,” John replied without thinking, “Why do you think I need you to help me move out? I can’t be near one of _them_!”

Lestrade’s face clouded instantly, “Out.”

“What?”

“Get out. Now. Don’t contact me again.”

“No. Wait. Let me explain. I’ve got a good reason for…”

“There _are_ no good reasons for being a prejudiced arsehole!” Lestrade snapped, “I don’t care if _one_ vampire wronged you, that doesn’t give you the right to hate the rest of them! Get! Out!”

“Greg, please,” John pleaded, “I can’t go back there. I’m…”

“ _OUT!”_

John jumped at the sudden shout and scrambled for the door latch. He barely avoided getting hit as he staggered out into the road. Then he was running again, his mind lost in memories.

_The first thing he noticed when he woke up was The Itch. It was horrible. His skin wanted to crawl off of his body and he was more than willing to help it. He screamed when they stopped him from scratching at his skin and kept screaming until they cut off the pain meds. The pain from his bullet wound curled through him, a comforting stabiliser in the aftermath of the mindless agony he’d just felt._

_“Can you tell me your name?” A face came into view by his bedside. A doctor._

_“Captain John Watson, MD,” John wheezed, “What’s happening to me?”_

_“You were shot, Captain. Since you have a rare bloodtype we had to use the blood you donated for yourself, but something went wrong with the sample and it was clotted.”_

_“How…?”_

_“Mishandling. The phlebotomist in question is being investigated.”_

_“You used vampire saliva on me.”_

_“It was our only option, I’m afraid. When you woke up a day ago you had a violent reaction to it commonly referred to as ‘Blushing’.”_

_“I know what Blushing is,” John growled angrily._

_Addiction ran in his family. His sister and father were alcoholics. He’d donated his own blood to_ avoid _this possibility! Blushers were high risk. They developed a pathological attraction to vampires and sought them out. If they were lucky they found a vampire who was looking for a Donor and was willing to take them on. That vampire would mark them and make sure no other vampires fed off of them, supplying them with their drug of choice while making sure they were unharmed by their addiction. It often led to romantic relationships that could last centuries since vampire blood had the added benefit of slowing aging. They might even turn into vampires themselves, a process that seemed to happen by luck rather than science and meant the end of their ailment. If they were unlucky they ended up lying on a filthy mattress in a warehouse somewhere with holes in their arms, legs, and neck… and vacant eyes. If they didn’t die there then any attempts to wean them off might well be fatal. Vampires couldn’t even be blamed. Blushers smelled far more attractive to them than normal people did._

_“I have to say this to you, Captain,” The doctor stated sadly, “You’re now considered ‘at risk’ and my recommendation will be that you be discharged. Officially the reason is PTSD since the actions that led to your addiction were not your own. That should make it easier to get a job once you’re out on your own. We’ll rehab you to the best of our abilities. You’re probably already noticed that pain helps. It sets off the same synapses in your brain that trigger you to crave VS. We’ll be giving you a kit. It contains electrodes you can attach to your person that will deliver a mild electric shock. It’s safe, but we still recommend it being used below the chest level for safety reasons. The further from your heart the better.”_

_“Yeah. I get it,” John nodded._

_Three days later they hooked John up to the device and gave him back his pain meds for his shoulder. John was relieved because the swelling had been intolerable. Once an hour had passed The Itch started to return and John’s left hand shook with the need to scratch. A flick of his wrist and he triggered he device. The shock felt more like a hum along his flesh and he relaxed instantly. He knew he wasn’t feeling it normally due to his new ailment, but the relief was too much to cause him to worry about other aspects. It would be an entire week before he realized the shock was becoming a whole new addiction. Then they’d take that away from him as well. By then The Itch had become intermittent as the VS- vampire saliva- was almost completely out of his system. He dealt with the occasional twinges with stubborn resolve and marched back out into the world to face a whole new battle._

_Then he met Sherlock Holmes, who deduced his limp was psychosomatic… but not why. John didn’t bother to inform him. He was ashamed that the removal of his shocks had led to the leg he’d shocked having chronic, imagined pain and had no urge to tell the man he was strangely drawn to that it was from something so ridiculous. Instead he followed after him, thrilled that the brilliant consulting detective had somehow cured him and given him a new lease on life._

John spent the night in an alley, wrapped up in newspaper and perfectly content to wait until he had calmed down before heading home. Sherlock didn’t deserve this. John knew that. He’d lived with him for two years and hadn’t laid a finger on John despite the fact he must have smelled delicious to him. John had to grow a pair and show up to apologize for his overreaction… then move the fuck out. Now that he knew why he was so complacent around Sherlock it wasn’t likely to last. He’d start having cravings now that his conscious mind knew what his unconscious one was after.

_Or I could just crawl away with my tail between my legs._

Except John had never been a coward. He had a weakness, there was no denying the addiction was just that, but he wasn’t about to let it consume him. He would have to limit his contact with Sherlock, but he couldn’t cut the poor vampire off from his only friend. John made up his mind by morning and headed over to Baker Street with fresh resolve.

There he found Sherlock in a very different state than he was used to.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was old. So old that time rarely mattered to him unless he was counting the years on someone else like John or Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson he’d known for over fifty years. He’d been outraged to find out that his former donor had gotten herself tangled up in a drug cartel so he’d happily rescued her. Sadly her frequent marijuana use kept him from collecting her blood again, but she was tolerant of his experiments so he was tolerant of her habits.

Sherlock sipped his whiskey and made a face. He hated it, but the amber fluids calmed him when the anger gnawed at his insides. Humans. They were all so small and insignificant. Yet they far outnumbered vampires and his kind were reliant on them for survival. No one knew how or why vampires were created. Some people were fed on for centuries but never turned, while others like Sherlock turned after one bite. He’d never forgiven Mycroft for that, even if he _had_ done it to save his life at the time.

A familiar tread on the stairs. Seventeen steps. How long had they known each other? Months? Years? He wasn’t entirely sure. John would know. He’d ask… no… he wouldn’t.

“Your things are there,” Sherlock stated coldly when John stepped into the flat.

 John looked remorseful, but Sherlock wasn’t prepared to hear it. Not after what he’d deduced. Not after what Lestrade had confirmed. To think all this time he’d been living with an anti-vamp and hadn’t known it. Now that he looked back he could see his mistake. He’d assumed a gunshot was the source of John’s injury to his shoulder, but apparently a mauling by a vampire was a more likely cause.

“Sherlock, I wanted to apologize about yesterday,” John stated clearly, “I hope we can still be friends.”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock replied.

John glanced at the three packed boxes and the suitcase full of clothes. Then he looked back at Sherlock. He waited for a complaint about privacy but it didn’t come.

“Will you give me a chance to explain?” John asked instead.

“Unnecessary,” Sherlock replied.

“I thought you of all people would be more understanding,” John replied sadly, “It’s not like I can help it.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock groused. John was right. It wasn’t his fault he had an irrational fear of vampires. It was the bigotry that bothered Sherlock. A phobia could be cured through therapy, being an asshole could not.

John sighed sadly, “I’ll just call a cab.”

Sherlock stared blankly towards the kitchen. He’d removed John’s chair but it wasn’t technically his so he wouldn’t ask about it. Less than an hour later everything John owned was in a cab, ready to go to a nearby motel that had a vacancy until he could find something more permanent. Sherlock squashed down the concern he saw when John passed and he saw that the limp was slowly returning. He’d spent the night on the pavement rather than return to a flat with a vampire in it.

“For what it’s worth… thank you for everything,” John said softly as he laid his key down on the mantle. Sherlock didn’t move. He didn’t respond. John reached out as if to put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, but then he shuddered in fear and disgust. Sherlock didn’t watch as he left. He couldn’t.

_I thought I had found someone I could finally trust. I was going to ask him to allow me to supplement his diet with saliva, just to prolong his life. Perhaps even make him a proper Donor. To feed off of someone again… oh, such bliss! No. Mycroft was right. I never should have trusted him. I won’t make that mistake again. I’m done falling for humans and their fickle ways._

Sherlock did his best to put John behind him, but the man’s voice echoed in his mind for months to come. Even after he finally captured and caged Moriarty John’s name still rose to his lips when he let his guard down. Numerous times he called others by that name and pretended after that it hadn’t happen rather than allow them to know he was still mourning his lost friendship.

 _It wasn’t real. He never cared for me. If he had it wouldn’t have mattered_.

Then one day Sherlock was called down to the Saint Mary’s by Lestrade and found a sight that tore at his barely-beating heart.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, staring into the room through the curtains. He couldn’t touch him. John was marked.


	3. Chapter 3

“He told me you never bit him, that true?” Lestrade asked softly.

“Yes, you know it is,” Sherlock replied.

“Then who…?”

“I’d have to get close enough to her to compare her scent to the one on John, but I can tell you she’s a female, has been alive for roughly four hundred years, and carries a firearm.”

“You can tell all that?” Lestrade asked in surprise, “Just from her scent on him?”

Sherlock stared sadly down at his former best friend and blogger. John was thin. Too thin. As if he’d just suffered a terrible illness. His face was twisted in anxiety even in sleep. He was hooked up to numerous tubes, all of them pumping nutrients into him and one of them pushing blood into his worn out veins. His inner wrist was bandaged. His soul was scarred. John was marked.

“One of her hairs is on his jacket,” Sherlock replied, indicating the jacket in a clear bag on the chair by the doorway, “It’s bleach blonde. There’s also gunpowder on his jeans, but the location isn’t consistent with him having fired it. I can tell her age by the strength of her scent on him. One thing eludes me: John _still_ doesn’t smell like a blusher. How did this happen?”

Lestrade shook his head in confusion, “He just waltzed into A&E and slit his wrists in the doorway. He was pretty shaky at the time so he only nicked himself, but he’d been cutting elsewhere- something about pain helping with the cravings- so they set him up to get him healthy. That’s when they saw the mark on his leg indicating he was a donor.”

“They’ll have to wean him down,” Sherlock said softly, “Some don’t survive.”

“Sherlock, he’s not _got_ VS in his system. He’s marked as a donor, but he must give by vein.”

“That’s mad,” Sherlock frowned, “I only do it to avoid intimacy, but John is clearly attached to his vampire or he wouldn’t be _marked_. Marking has to be _accepted_.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade started carefully, “They told me his wounds go back eighteen months. Signs of abuse, and not just self inflicted.”

“Oh?” Sherlock blinked, “How long has it been?”

Lestrade didn’t ask him to clarify. He knew Sherlock wasn’t good with dates, “John moved out nearly two years ago… I think in about a week?”

“So he practically fell into her arms after leaving my territory. That makes no sense. John was terrified of me and disgusted by vampires in general. That _is_ what he told you?”

“Said he was anti-vamp. Can’t get more anti than anti,” Lestrade shrugged, “So why shack up with a vampire after declaring himself against them? Was he a blusher before you two broke up? Maybe they were drawn to each other?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “We can smell blushers. He’d never even been bitten. I’d have _known_. _Any_ vampire would know. Instantly.”

“So what is this? Why the vampire hating and then a sudden turn?”

“It makes no sense,” Sherlock shook his head, “Pull his gown down from his shoulder.”

“You do it,” Lestrade replied, nudging him childishly.

“I can’t touch him, he’s been marked!” Sherlock hissed angrily.

“The hell does that mean?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock sighed, “You know all those silly legends about crosses burning vampires?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, most stories have some basis in fact. When a vampire carves their symbol into a human their flesh and blood become repellent to the rest of us. John has been claimed as someone’s Donor. He belongs to her. I can’t touch him without burning my skin and I don’t feel like stinking up John’s room with burning vampire flesh. _Move his gown_.”

Lestrade reached out, was told to go for the other shoulder, and carefully inched that one off of John’s shoulder.

“Bullet wound,” Sherlock stated.

“Course it is,” Lestrade shrugged, “He was shot, remember?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t add up. Either John was shot in the shoulder and developed a psychosomatic limp from it _after_ he already had decided he was prejudiced against vampires, or he was mauled- without teeth- by a vampire and developed a psychosomatic limp and a legitimate phobia from _that_.”

“Sounds a bit convoluted, but I’ll bite. Why?”

“Because _something_ had to trigger his fear of vampires. He told you he was having flashbacks of Afghanistan. Assuming he wasn’t lying- and John never lies, he just talks around the truth- he was referring to whatever caused him to fear and hate vampires. So what was it, if not a mauling?”

“Vampire pulled the trigger?”

“Unlikely. Vampires look the same as anyone else. He’d have to have been _sure_ in a _traumatic_ way that the individual was a vampire.”

“Sh’lck,” John wheezed, his throat dry.

“Give him a drink,” Sherlock muttered, shoving at Lestrade anxiously.

Lestrade scrambled for a cup of water and helped John take a sip.

“What are you doing here?” John asked them both.

“Following a lead,” Sherlock replied, “The last case we worked together is still open. Another was just killed- an American journalist named Magnussen. We were told an abused, unidentified donor was in this hospital. My profile of the suspect includes a propensity to abuse her donors. You’re a donor now.”

John blinked, “I’m a blusher.”

“No. No, you aren’t. Your lips aren’t red, you don’t smell like one, and you’ve no bites on you _anywhere_. Just needle marks from where she had you draining yourself.”

John smiled a bit, the expression lopsided from exhaustion, “You should have let me explain. Never seen you get something so wrong before.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s hilarious. We’ll all be chuckling over it for years to come,” Sherlock stated sarcastically, “For now… _what did I get wrong_?”

John shook his head, “Not talking. I know my rights.”

“What?”

“You’re investigating,” John stated, “I’ve got the right to remain silent, and I’m taking it.”

“Bloody hell!” Lestrade gaped at Sherlock and then John, “We’re not investigating _you_! We’re investigating your donor! If she’s innocent, you just tell us so.”

“I want an attorney,” John stated.

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade grumbled, shaking his head as he headed for the door, “I’ll call it in.”

Sherlock and John remained in the awkward silence for a while before John breached it.

“How’ve you been?”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, “I’m surprised you care.”

“I do care. I care… a lot. I’ve been following your cases when I can…”

“When your vampire allows you,” Sherlock frowned, “Is that why she beats you? She’s jealous of the attention you pay me.”

John shut his eyes miserably, “Not talking about her.”

“Fine, let’s talk about you,” Sherlock replied with narrowed eyes, “Why do you behave like a blusher when you’ve never been bitten by a vampire in your life?”

“Not your problem.”

“You’re throwing your life away!” Sherlock threw up his arms in frustration, “I can tell by the state of your hands that all you’ve done is _clean_ for the last two years! You’re a _doctor_ and a _soldier_ , and this is what you’re reduced to?!”

“Fuck off,” John growled, “You tossed me to the curb without even letting me _explain_. Now you want to nose into my life? Get out.”

“John, you…”

John’s hand shot out and he gripped Sherlock’s wrist. The man shouted in pain, pulling away as his arm burned and a handprint appeared around his wrist.

“Fuck. Off.”

John’s eyes were flashing with something Sherlock had never wanted to see. Hate. He turned and fled out into the hall where Lestrade was on the phone arranging for a ‘suspect’ to get an attorney sent to the hospital. He turned and gave Sherlock a horrified look.

“I have to go, friend of mine’s been hurt. Sherlock? What the hell happened?”

“Medical records,” Sherlock gasped.

“What?”

“I need to see John’s medical records. I think I know what happened but I won’t make the mistake of not following it up with research this time. Last time John didn’t bother correcting me- he doesn’t lie, but he’ll avoid the truth- at the time I didn’t know that detail about him so I assumed he’d correct me if I was wrong. He didn’t. He let me go on assuming, then when he was ready to tell me I blew him off. Now I need facts. Cold, hard facts. I need John’s medical records.”

“You need blood!” Lestrade stammered, “Look at your wrist!”

“Mycroft will be able to get them faster than you,” Sherlock snapped, pulling out his mobile.

“Bloody hell!” Lestrade sighed.

XXX

She’d seemed so sweet and innocent. John had felt that pull towards her instantly, and known right away what it was. When it had been Sherlock he hadn’t wanted to see it, but since then he’d been far more careful. He’d avoided all the vampires that passed his way, and most paid him no mind since he wasn’t a proper blusher. She was different. She looked right at him and smiled. That smile was a predator’s smile. A hunter. He’d felt it go straight to his groin and had smiled right back. Challenge accepted. She’d chased. He’d run, but without really putting much effort into it. Where Sherlock and John had always had a verbal sparring, Mary sparred with him physically. John needed the pain to avoid The Itch so the idea he was being abused never even crossed his mind. She was giving him what he wanted, what he needed. For over a month she toyed with him like a cat with a mouse, never biting him or kissing him. Just making him ache with want. Then she took him all at once in a violent, passionate, day-long session of blood-letting and sex.

She still hadn’t bitten him.

She’d carved a mark into his thigh with an engraved knife, scooped the blood up, and licked it from her fingers.

Her saliva never touched him.

John, in his convoluted and lonely mind, thought it was respect for his addiction.

He was wrecked.

For months on end they fought and fucked and John happily opened veins for her. She liked to sip his blood from a bowl, licking it clean when she was done. Sometimes he’d lick the leavings from her face, but they never kissed. She never, ever crossed that line of letting him near her saliva no matter how he wanted it. She was keeping him _safe_.

Then she’d vanished and he’d gone mad trying to contact her. Then she’d returned with gunpowder on her gloves. She burned the gloves. John lit the match for her. Then more long absences, and more gunpowder, and more sleeping alone and hoping she’d come back but _fearing_ the moment she did. Then she’d been gone for so much longer than the previous times and the _waiting_ was driving him mad.

He’d been so sure she’d show up if his life were in danger.

Then Sherlock had shown up at the hospital and awakened in John a different type of wanting.

He’d been her beard. Her cover. Her normal life. They had a flat with a balcony and frilly pillows. She had a house-donor who kept it clean and smiled at the neighbours. No one would suspect her so long as he kept smiling and swearing he was her only donor. She looked _innocent_ because of John and his fuzzy jumpers. 

He knew that he’d been tricked, that she’d lured him in with a promise of danger and safety similar to Sherlock but so, so different in intent. John was filled with regret and fear, but also resigned to the life that now seemed to be his. Her mark was carved into his upper thigh. His life was hers. John had no hope left. He dreamt of Sherlock but woke to _Mary_. She owned him. He obeyed her. Created her alibis when she went out to kill. John was a kept man. He never worked. Rarely left the flat. He had a balcony that he sat on and sipped tea while reading books. It was nice. It was calm. It was terrifying. He lived a world divided in two. He both loved and feared Mary. He both enjoyed her and suffered at her hands. He appeared to be calm and content, but inside he was raging and screaming. A lion caged in a zoo, forever left to pace the boundaries of his pen and recall a time when his legs had been able to truly stretch as he ran. His needs were met, but not his _wants_. He had food, drink, sex, and some slim forms of affection. He had no peace. Sherlock’s danger rushes had been in between lulls and a sense of safety with his companion by his side. Mary was the constant danger in his life, her presence an adrenalin rush in itself. She killed without remorse and loved just the same.

She’d seemed so sweet and innocent. He’d never been more wrong in his entire life.

XXX

“It almost looks like a word,” Lestrade told Sherlock, holding up the picture of one of the scars, “ _AGRO_. That’s not really a word but…”

Sherlock glanced over and then recoiled, hissing as the very sight of the mark on John’s flesh hurt his eyes. Lestrade tucked it away, forcing down a smile. Sherlock scowled. It probably did look funny: a theatrical reaction to something symbolic. It was annoying that he was so repulsed by it, but it could hardly be helped. John was _marked_.

“It’s a Celtic knot,” Sherlock supplied once the picture was safely tucked away, “But yes, it does look like letters.”

“You think it’s intentional? That it stands for something?”

“Probably her original name,” Sherlock shrugged, “That will be four hundred years old. Hardly relevant to today. Symbols are highly personal and usually quite convoluted, but they rarely mean anything to anyone but the vampire who owns it. Speaking of which, she might hunt you down now that we’re getting close. You should allow Mycroft to mark you.”

“Won’t you be unable to go near me then?” Lestrade asked with a frown, “Or feed off my blood? Why don’t _you_ mark me?”

“Mycroft is older and more powerful. He’ll be able to protect you better than I can, and I already have a couple of Donors who are marked, so I’d rather not take on more, thank you.”

“Who?” Lestrade asked, blinking in surprise, “I had no idea!”

“Mrs. Hudson, for one.”

“Okay. Ew,” Lestrade frowned.

Sherlock smiled, “Oh, she was quite beautiful thirty some years ago. Gorgeous, even. You should see her pole dance. _Erotic_ isn’t a strong enough word.”

“Double ew, and let’s never bring that up again,” Lestrade replied.

“Hm, she’s still a spitfire,” Sherlock sighed, “I rarely drink from her anymore but… well. I can’t help but indulge in _other_ …”

“Don’t make me slug you,” Lestrade interrupted.

“Humans,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Very well, what of being marked?”

“I don’t know Mycroft like that.”

“You will if he marks you.”

“Yeah, not so sure I want to know His Dibs like that. I know he’s your brother and all, but he’s sort of a pompous arsehole.”

“I have it on good authority he’s a god in bed,” Sherlock replied.

“We’re really bringing home the ick factor today, aren’t we?” Lestrade replied.

“I need you safe. You’re a distraction otherwise. I should have marked John when I had the chance.”

“He’d have bolted, remember?” Lestrade held up the medical records, “Or gone deep into it with you. Can a blusher ever safely be a Donor? If he’s really a pre-disposed addict like these notes from the army say…”

“Yes, but it requires a vampire with restraint.”

“Something you don’t have. Can a mark be removed? If it’s taken off then he can testify against her in court, otherwise we can’t use anything stated in conversation, only facts which he might not have.”

“Yes, it can be removed, but at great pain to both the vampire doing the removing and the Donor.”

“Think John will consent?”

“He’ll have to if he wants her to leave him alone. The mark acts as a beacon, drawing her to him. She’ll find him soon if she hasn’t already. The surprise is that she left him for so long, I wonder that she might have perished on her own.”

“So she’s either dead or going to show up if we wait around?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. The doctor had returned and was headed for them.

“Are you his Recipient?” The doctor asked, his voice filled with anger.

“No,” Sherlock stated, “I’m… a friend.”

“Do you know who his Recipient is?”

“We’d like to,” Lestrade interrupted, “She’s a suspect for multiple murders.”

“Not surprising,” The man replied, “She did quite a number on him. I’ve got a Donor Advocate on the way to try to talk him into leaving her, but I understand he’s marked.”

“Correct,” Sherlock nodded, “The scar on his thigh is an official mark. I can remove it.”

“I thought you said…?” Lestrade started.

“I need not replace it with my _own_ mark,” Sherlock replied, “I can simply remove it.”

“Yeah, but you said it would be painful…”

“It will,” Sherlock replied, “It will also reactivate his addiction, leaving him to have to fight it off, possibly at the cost of his life.”

“Joy,” Lestrade grunted, staring down at John’s medical charts, “So he’d have to go back on the electroshock therapy that caused his limp.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, “Any pain will do, that’s just the easiest to control.”

“You’re all avoiding one rather important point,” The doctor stated, “This is _his_ decision, and in my experience marked donors rarely ever leave their recipient, even if they’re being horrifically abused.”

Lestrade nodded miserably, but Sherlock was dismissively silent for so long that the doctor shrugged and left. That was when a woman walked through the doors of the hospital wing with pale skin and short blonde hair. She walked with authority and dignity, a smart cream coloured pantsuit showing off her slender form.

“Hello Mary,” Sherlock purred as she passed him.

She gave him a dismissive glance and continued into John’s room.

“Mary?” Lestrade asked, “How did you know…?”

“I deduced it based on what we know about her,” Sherlock stated with a shrug, “Also it’s a common name.”

“Blood hell you’re like a magician, you know that?”

“I have centuries more experience in sleuthing than you do. Perhaps if you join with Mycroft he can turn you and you’ll catch up some day. I doubt you will- catch up that is- but it’s worth a shot.”

“Yeah, nice try,” Lestrade chuckled.

XXX

“I’m quite shocked at you, John,” Mary stated, “I thought better of you than this.”

“I’m sorry,” John replied miserably, “It’s just you were gone for so long and I got drunk and…”

“Again?” She replied in a chiding voice.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“That’s what you said last time!” Mary snapped, “I’m through with this, John!”

John’s eyes widened in horror as she gripped the blanket and threw it down, pulling his gown up to reveal his thigh.

“What are you doing?” John asked, his breath speeding up even as blood rushed to his groin. She could still do that to him; turn him on in an instant with a mere glance.

“What I should have done the first time you got sloshed and bled all over our flat!”

Then her head flew into his lap, but not in the way he’d so often fantasized about. Instead she sank her teeth into the mark on his thigh. John howled, screaming as pain like fire flew through his veins at the same moment that the heady feel of VS triggered a pleasurable response in his half-hard cock. Then Sherlock was there, prying her off of him by jamming his fingers into her mouth. Blood shot out of his leg and John’s hazy brain supplied the term _arterial spray_ before the world began to cloud up on him. He heard the muffled sound of gunshots through the fog closing in around him and then another mouth was at his thigh, but instead of biting or suckling it was pushing. John groaned in pain as a wet muscle wriggled into the gaping wound on his thigh. His eyes slowly began to refocus as his blood production went into overdrive, the vampire saliva overriding other bodily responses in order to order his brain and cells to perform that one task. He’d wake up a few pounds lighter for all the fat and muscle eaten up in an attempt to collect more iron from his already hurting body as fast as possible.

John blinked down at the wound on his leg as Sherlock’s head shifted out of the way and a doctor stepped in.

“It’s too deep for me to close, and I’m too dehydrated to do much more,” Sherlock told the doctor who immediately began applying gauze and pressure and shouting instructions. One of them was for Sherlock to help any way he could.

Sherlock’s head turned to John, seeming to move in slow motion compared to the rushing of the staff around him, and for a moment their eyes met- stark fear in Sherlock’s normally calm orbs- and then Sherlock’s mouth was crashing down on his. John’s jaw fell slack and Sherlock used his tongue to press his saliva into John in mimicry of an intimate kiss.

“For the record,” Lestrade’s voice echoed around in John’s head, “ _None_ of you heard gunshots.”

“I didn’t hear a damn thing,” A nurse stated, “Saw that blonde bitch try to kill him, though.”

Sherlock’s lips left John’s, “I hope you’re willing to testify to that, because she could easily sway a court to believe she was removing her mark to spare herself further pain and he injured _himself_ by fighting her off.”

“Sherlock, should you be stopping?” Lestrade asked, his tone concerned.

“I’m dehydrated,” Sherlock stated, “I can’t get more saliva into him if I haven’t _got_ any.”

“If you bite me will you produce some fast enough to close my bite _and_ help John?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock hesitated the barest moment, staring down at John who blearily blinked up at him. They were moving now, hurrying towards surgery but John had somehow missed the entire span of them leaving the hospital room.

“Did you bite Greg?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock replied, “I couldn’t be sure of keeping him safe and the doctor assured me more blood was on the way. You’ll be fine. You _have_ to be. Listen to me, John. Focus your thoughts. Picture yourself turning into a vampire. No one knows precisely how or why it happens but you’ve been bitten twice by two vampires today, so use psychology to your advantage. It’s entirely possible _wanting_ it is the key.”

“I _don’t_ want it,” John replied, “I want you to kiss me again.”

“John, I will kiss you until the end of time if you _turn_ ,” Sherlock insisted, but was then stopped as they turned into the surgery, “Turn, John! Please turn!”

The doors banged shut and a needle pinched his thigh. The pain receded and with it all that was keeping John conscious.


	4. Chapter 4

John woke up to the steady beep of a monitor. He ached everywhere, including his muddled head. He spied the saline drip and noted that the blood bags were gone. He was getting fluids only. That explained his _urgent_ need to piss. Except he was tied to his bed. Damn.

“Nurse!” John called out.

A shadow shifted beside his bed and Sherlock leaned over him. John felt a quiver in his belly, the stirrings of want that were kept at bay by the pain from his injuries. Sherlock leaned forward and sniffed him, studying John’s face carefully.

“You didn’t turn.”

“Yeah,” John croaked, “I need to piss.”

“I’ll have to look for another solution to keep you safe,” Sherlock replied, pressing the button on John’s bed. It was in his reach. In fact, his _thumb_ was resting on it. He’d just been too out of it to notice.

“I don’t get to be safe,” John replied, looking away from him, “Are my lips red?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, “You were losing blood at a faster rate than you were producing it. Blushers only develop red lips when the opposite is true, usually a day after abusing VS. You aren’t abusing it, you’re using it at the proper levels.”

“I _want_ it. I don’t like wanting something I don’t need to survive.”

“Want and need are two different things,” Sherlock replied, “Your addiction may be manageable. You may not even have one. You lived with me for two years. On some level you must have known, even if it were unconscious, yet you never sought me or another vampire out to sate your urges.”

“I was scared.”

“That’s good. I’m terrifying.”

John smiled weakly and the nurse stepped in.

“I need the toilet,” John informed her.

“You’re a fall risk, my dear, so it will have to be the urinal,” She told him with a soft smile as she hurried to fetch it.

“Fine,” John replied, “Sherlock out.”

“I’ve seen you piss before,” Sherlock replied.

“Yeah, but you’re presence is making me hard and that makes things a bit difficult.”

“Oh,” Sherlock blinked, “Very well.”

The nurse had flushed but didn’t say anything otherwise. John thought of repulsive things until he could comfortably pee and then sighed in relief as his body finally felt less like an impending explosion. The worst part was that she kept him cuffed to the bed like a madman, choosing to hold both his dick and the urinal for him. Then she tucked him back in and left with a snap of rubber gloves into the trashcan. Sherlock glided back in and John wondered at how he’d ever thought Sherlock was anything _but_ a vampire with the way he moved.

“You were in heavy denial,” Sherlock replied, attempting to be soothing.

“Can I just… can I get a _little_ kiss?” John asked.

Sherlock leaned in and pecked him on the lips in a completely dry kiss, “Like that?”

John settled, surprised that it had done the trick, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.”

“You see?” Sherlock smiled a bit, “No need, just want. You have my affection if that’s what you crave, John. You never lost it and I shouldn’t have doubted you as I did. I owe you a grave apology.”

“I don’t know what I want,” John replied, “I’ve never thought of kissing you before. Why would I want to if not to get to your spit?”

“You’ve been through one hell of an ordeal,” Sherlock reminded, “Comfort isn’t an unusual request from what I’ve been told. We need to discuss ways to keep you safe.”

“From whom?” John asked, eyebrows furrowing, “Greg?”

“No,” Sherlock frowned, “Mary. Why would you suggest _Greg_?”

“What about her? She got rid of me. I’m not her Donor anymore,” John replied, evading the question.

“Getting rid of you was _precisely_ what she was trying to do. She didn’t just remove her mark, she opened up a major artery! John, _you nearly died_.”

“I know,” John replied, “What of it?”

“What of it?!” Sherlock stammered, then straightened and paced the room for a moment before turning back to John, “John, she isn’t through with you. She’s going to try to kill you. She was going for making it look like an accident, but if my deductions are right than she’s an assassin that’s been using you as a cover for nearly two years!”

John blinked. Old news, though he’d never really used the words ‘assassin’ when he’d thought of her. More like serial killer. Still, either way he was an accomplice to murder and would rather find a way to off himself than go to jail. Sherlock sighed as he saw John’s resignation in his eyes.

“Let me mark you,” Sherlock said softly.

John’s eyes widened and Sherlock held up his hands comfortingly, “I’ll never feed off you after if you want but…”

“I don’t want that. I’ve _had_ that. I hated it. Sherlock, you need to leave. Now.”

“John…”

“I’m pushing the call button.”

“Think about it,” Sherlock sighed, and then headed for the doorway. He had an assassin to trap.

XXX

Mary was as elusive as she was beautiful, but Sherlock knew at least one of her motivations now. He need only wait her out, and that was easily possible. He crouched on the roof of the hospital above John’s room. Inside Lestrade and Molly were his eyes and ears as it was entirely possible she’d sway someone to do her bidding from inside. Sherlock’s preternatural hearing was extended as far and sharply as it could go, so much so that he heard the moment John’s breathing became laboured.

Sherlock swooped down into the room and sliced Mary’s head off before she could turn it from where she was sitting in John’s lap smothering him with a pillow. Sherlock shoved her bleeding corpse aside and pulled the pillow off of John’s face. He frowned up at him.

“Again?” John asked, “Why don’t you just let me _die_?”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was shaken by John’s statement, but not nearly as much as the sight of seeing Mary decapitated shook John a moment later. He screamed and then began convulsing. Sherlock got a nurse while he watched helplessly as John seized on the bed. It was withdrawal. He was craving VS and his addiction was so pronounced that just having _some_ had caused this! Many people didn’t survive VS withdrawal.

Sherlock was quick to volunteer his saliva so that John could be weaned off of it, but the doctor on staff was hesitant. He told him they had donated saliva they could use, and that Sherlock was too close to the situation. Sherlock was relieved to be free of the burden and simply agreed, but a moment later Mycroft intervened.

“I’ve placed you in his records as a prior claim,” Mycroft’s voice slid into the room like oil.

Sherlock was standing by John’s bedside. He’d been stabilized but hadn’t regained consciousness yet. Sherlock was just starting to think that Mycroft was going to keep his long nose out of it, but apparently he had instead decided to break a few laws.

“I wasn’t, and he’ll attest to that,” Sherlock pointed out.

“He’s in no condition to refuse anything,” Mycroft stated, “And when he wakes up the cravings will have set in. Once he hears you’ll be taking him on as a donor he’ll simply agree in order to get to what he needs.”

“You know what they say about people who assume.”

“Don’t be smart. For the record Mary was one of ours once.”

“Oh, don’t tell me I’m in trouble for killing her!”

“Certainly not. It was in defence of your Donor, who she stole from you. Obviously you had every right to save his life.”

“Well… that’s good,” Sherlock conceded, “I suppose I’ve got no choice, then.”

“None at all.”

“I do so love these conversations, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied sarcastically.

“A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t be remiss.”

“Piss off.”

“That, I suppose, will have to do seeing as that’s as nice as you get. Good day, brother.”

XXX

John woke up in his old room in 221B. It was just as he’d left it nearly two years ago. He rolled over, fighting the burning in his veins, and pulled open the drawer to his bedside table. Even his porn and lube were in the same place. For a moment John spent some time indulging a fantasy in which the last two years were a drugged out fantasy brought on by abuse of VS. Then he remembered he’d only ‘abused’ it during his service time, so that meant that _Sherlock_ was also a hallucination. That thought was unbearable so he staggered upright, scratching weakly at his arm only to find some strange soft sponge had been glued to his finger tips.

“How the hell?” John asked.

“You must _really_ be out of it,” Sherlock chuckled, “You opened the drawer with those on, but you only just noticed?”

“Sherlock,” John sighed in relief, “I thought I’d dreamt you.”

“Well, I _am_ dreamy.”

John considered that, “Mm, no. No you’re not. You’re an arse. You’re _gorgeous_ , but you’re not the least bit dreamy.”

“Whichever,” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, “You’re not up to performing your duties as my Donor yet s-“

“Donor?” John asked, “Now I get it. This is a _nightmare_.”

“You signed yourself out of rehab yesterday and were released into _my care_. Don’t you recall?”

“No.”

“Well, no matter. I was going to say that you can have my spit the easy way since you-“

John cut him off again, but this time by pouncing on him and snogging him senseless. Sherlock moaned as John pressed him against the wall, but quickly turned the tables on the stubborn blogger. He pinned John, lifting him off the ground with his preternatural strength, and fucked his mouth with his tongue until John was a panting, writhing mess. The man stiffened suddenly and Sherlock moaned against him as the scent of semen joined the mix. John had come in his trousers like a horny teen.

“Adorable,” Sherlock purred, lowering him back to unsteady feat on the floor, “You’re sure to have more stamina once you’ve recovered, but for now I enjoy you like this.”

“I hope I didn’t blow my stitches,” John replied, his voice slurring.

“They’re well on their way to healing up,” Sherlock replied, “It’s been _days_ , John. You’re losing time due to trauma and VS withdrawal. I’ve been slowly weaning you down to normal levels. I spent nearly a night snogging you, you know.”

“Gods,” John replied, letting Sherlock help him back to the bed and dropping to a sit on his bed, “You moved my stuff back.”

“Mycroft had it done, but I orchestrated its location. I knew how you liked it.”

“Thanks. It feels like home.”

“There were many _new_ things in your flat with… it. You can go back and get any you wish or give me a list and I’ll fetch them.”

“No,” John replied, shaking his head, “I don’t want anything from there.”

“There were some rather nice books…”

“I never want to read another book again,” John replied, “It was all I did besides cook and clean.”

“I’m assuming you don’t want to do those, either?”

“Not so much.”

“I’ll inform Mrs. Hudson. My cases have paid off so well of late that there’s no difficulty in hiring a maid. She’ll likely cook from time to time and the rest of it we can get take-out.”

“You eat,” John mused.

“I do,” Sherlock replied, “I can eat directly after ingesting blood, but only then. I don’t need large quantities per day and I fast during a case to sharpen my senses.”

“I never saw it.”

“I was discrete. It disgusts many people. I have glasses that are designed to look as if they contain water or soda- from the outside only, obviously- regardless of what you pour in them. You never noticed, not even once when you poured yourself a glass of water and it appeared to be soda,” Sherlock chuckled.

“I just… was so blind,” John replied, “And then I panicked. I don’t know how to tell you I’m sorry now. You thought-“

“I was blind that time,” Sherlock replied, “I should have listened to you at the very least. I certainly shouldn’t have jumped to a conclusion that didn’t fit your base personality. I’m the one who is sorry, and you’re the one who has paid for it.”

“I feel… better,” John stated, “Better than I’ve felt in a long time.”

“VS is addictive and you have the predisposition, but in small doses it’s not harmful,” Sherlock explained, sitting down on John’s bed and crossing his legs, “You’ll always crave it, but with me moderating how much you get you won’t be harmed by it. Incidentally applications on the outside of the skin are harmless. It’s not that absorbent.”

“So if you were to say… kiss my neck?” John asked. Sherlock visibly shivered and John winced, “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I said that.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock replied, “I’ve not had a donor in decades and my body is trying to tell me to indulge in you. That won’t be possible for some time, and just to be clear it is _completely_ your choice if we ever take things to that level. I will ask you to donate blood to me from time to time, but that’s only because having you so close and being intimate with you is going to make me crave you. I don’t want to betray you someday by jumping you against your will. You may donate by needle rather than tooth if you prefer.”

John hesitated, “Will it hurt? Not that I’m afraid of pain, but going at something like that daily…”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “Mary was going for injury. My teeth are thin. You’ll feel an initial sting and then my saliva will hit your bloodstream and you’ll only feel pleasure.”

“Right, speaking of pleasure. I’d like to change my pants now.”

Sherlock chuckled, “Go ahead.”

“In private,” John scowled.

“Oh, right,” Sherlock sighed, “You humans and your shyness. Go on then.”

Sherlock stood and left, mentioning that he’d be downstairs if John needed him.

John slipped out of his sweats and pants, staring down at the place where is flesh had been torn. He had an oblong scar forming, stitches tight in place were already starting to dissolve. It was clearly a bite mark, but nothing that a human was capable of. It looked as if a small shark or big dog had taken a bite out of him, but without the flesh tearing. The mark that she’d carved into his flesh had been severed in half. John was considering tattoos to put over it. Something complicated like an insignia, perhaps.

John walked down the steps on still shaky legs, wondering at how weak he was.

“Painkillers,” Sherlock stated, answering his question without it being asked as usual, “Another reason for me to avoid biting you. My problem with drugs stems from feeding off of a boyfriend in the 17th century. He had an opium addiction. I’ve had to be careful ever since. When Lestrade was hear looking for drugs he was looking for _your_ drug stash, figuring you were my new donor. I didn’t argue with him because I was hoping you would be, but your frequent statement about not being gay… well.”

“I feel like I’ve got rose coloured glasses over the last several years of my life,” John sighed, “How have you been? Without me?”

Sherlock glanced at him, “I’m not sure you’re ready to know.”

“You fell off the wagon, didn’t you?” John asked, “Don’t spare me details, Sherlock. I’ll worry less with information at hand.”

“A young woman reminded me of you. She used heroin.”

John sighed, shaking his head, “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock replied, “She got clean because of Mycroft’s intervention. She’s engaged to a very kind young man now. She’ll have a better life.”

“Well, good for her,” John sighed, sinking into his old chair, “What now? We just… go on as before? Or will you need to keep me isolated to make sure I don’t run off and seduce another vampire?”

“You’re not my prisoner, John,” Sherlock replied softly, “Mycroft was the one who insisted I needed to take you as a donor to avoid getting charged with Mary’s death. I just want you to be happy. If you want we can stage a public break up and you can go on your way, but I’ll insist you get help for your withdrawal. You could die from this, John.”

“I’m not overly concerned about my life.”

“I know. That terrifies me.”

“You? Terrified?” John scoffed.

“I’ve always worried where you were concerned,” Sherlock replied, walking from the couch he’d been spread out on and sinking into the chair opposite him, “John I’ve cared for you more than I have for anyone in a long, long time. I don’t expect you to return those feelings, but I’m not about to vanish from your life again. If you leave I’ll be in the shadows making sure you don’t harm yourself again. You have my word on that. So do us both a favour and stop being _petulant_.”

John scoffed and leaned back in his chair, a soft smile on his face. Then he leaned forward, hesitated a moment, and then sank down onto one knee on the floor. He put a hand out and hesitantly touched Sherlock’s leg, glancing at him for consent. Sherlock shrugged and mumbled that he didn’t mind, but he looked alarmingly flustered. John’s other hand slid up Sherlock’s thigh to hesitantly cup his groin and Sherlock’s eyes widened with each inch until his legs fell apart and his eyes fell shut. John watched Sherlock’s head fall back and a soft breath leave his pale lips.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock breathed.

A knock on their door had John quickly withdrawing his hand and looking over at a woman standing beside Mrs. Hudson.

“Case, boys,” Mrs. Hudson chirped.

“Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?” The woman asked, looking a bit alarmed at what she’d walked in on.

John poked Sherlock’s cheek and he grudgingly sat up, “Oh, fine. What?”


	6. Chapter 6

John was absolutely exultant. He’d missed the thrill of a case, and even if he was confined to communicating with Sherlock via phone while the man took on the case alone, he was still a _part_ of it. Sherlock kept his phone on speaker the entire time, and John’s heart pounded in his chest as he heard the man fight, shout, make fantastic deductions out of thin air, and gloat about it to his adversary. In the end the man was arrested after having gathered his own evidence against himself at the wedding he used as a cover to kill a famous guest. John was left breathless in the flat, eagerly awaiting the moment Sherlock would return home to regal him with the tail all over again in even more splendid detail.

Sherlock’s footsteps never made a sound, but John could hear him moving away from the crime scene and Lestrade’s officers. There was a moment of silence and then some footsteps joined him.

“You’re pale,” A voice stated, and John recognized the concern in Lestrade’s tone.

“Yes,” Sherlock stated simply, and then there was an awkward fumbling for the phone in Sherlock’s pocket that created horrible static sounds and… silence.

“Sherlock?” John asked, and then glanced at the phone in concern.

He’d hung up.

XXX

John was trying to avoid using his cane, but the second he realized Sherlock had hung up a shocking pain went up his leg. He hissed in anxiety and tried to get to his cane against the wall, but found that he couldn’t put an ounce of weight on the leg. He ended up toppling to the floor where he lay in agony for nearly an hour. Sherlock’s not-quite silent steps on the stairs nearly got him up, but instead resulted in him falling _again_ while the man stared down at him in shock.

“John!” Sherlock bolted forward and hauled him up as if he weighed nothing, dropping him into his chair, “What happened? Mycroft’s fellow was supposed to keep an eye on you!”

“My damn leg’s been- hang on, who?” John asked with narrowed eyes.

“You didn’t think I’d left you _alone_ did you?” Sherlock scoffed, and proceeded to tug John’s trousers off. John was so furious that he fought him, shoving his hands away, “I’m trying to see what’s _wrong_.”

“What’s wrong is in my head!” John raged, “Why did you hang up?”

Sherlock blinked, “I thought you’d find me discussing feeding times with Lestrade distasteful.”

“So you were feeding off him!” John raged.

“No,” Sherlock scoffed, “Lestrade gives me blood in _vials_. I was having a pint with him in an alley.”

“Having a pint,” John’s nostrils flared, “Is that what it’s called, then?”

“Yes, and has been for centuries,” Sherlock scoffed, “How do you think the booze industry coined the term?”

John blinked, “What really?”

“Yes, really,” Sherlock replied, “Vampires have been making wine and other forms of alcoholic substances for thousands of years. Our earliest form of non-aggressive, non-penetrative blood collection has been trading a pint of alcohol for a pint of blood during peacetimes.”

“Peacetimes?” John asked.

“Have you never read a history book?” Sherlock scoffed, finally succeeding in tugging John’s trousers off, “We’ve been stalking war zones since the very first one broke out. Why do you think we’re such an accepted practice in the military? We can’t serve, but we’re basically a part of the military anyway, and certainly welcome in any hospital we’d care to set foot in. Now then, it doesn’t look irritated.”

“It’s not,” John replied, “The pain’s in my head.”

Sherlock looked up from where he knelt and gave John an apologetic glance, “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” John sighed, “I’m turning into a jealous woman.”

“What, over Lestrade? I don’t even lay a tooth on him. He uses a needle.”

“I know, but you’re still _drinking his blood_.”

“Only because I can’t have yours yet,” Sherlock replied softly, “You’re too weak and you’re pumped full of painkillers and medication helping you deal with the withdrawal. Speaking of which, come and have a kiss.”

John didn’t realize how much he’d wanted exactly that until a bolt of pain went through his gut. Then he was on Sherlock as if _he_ were the vampire, mouth covering his as the hard body he threw himself against held him steady, despite the fact he should have toppled over with that distribution of weight being tossed against him. Sherlock’s hard arms came around him and John simply melted with a low moan of appreciation. He’d _missed_ that sure-fire combination of danger and security that emanated off of Sherlock in spades.

John was only half aware that he was grinding his hips needily against Sherlock’s groin. What dominated this moment was the feel of Sherlock’s tongue rolling through his mouth. The effects of the saliva were like poprocks in his mouth, firing off against his nerves and lighting them all on file. He felt his tongue, cheeks, and lips swell as the bloodflow surged inside of them. The effect continued down his throat, making breathing a bit difficult until he was required to pant. This was the ‘near anaphylactic’ reaction many donors described that made many people run screaming in the opposite direction. You either got over the discomfort, or you embraced it with the knowledge that your throat wouldn’t fully close up. John broke off the kiss to take several steadying breaths and then dove in for more, but Sherlock retreated, pressing two fingers to John’s lips.

“More,” John moaned, cupping Sherlock’s groin and rubbing at him in an attempt to get the man aroused enough to allow for more kissing.

“Soon,” Sherlock panted, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure as he leaned back to sit properly on the floor. John adjusted his angle and threw his head back in pleasure as he rutted against Sherlock hungrily, “ _John.”_

“Yes,” John panted, “That’s it. Come for me, you beautiful man.”

“Mmm, not a man,” Sherlock growled, “ _Creature.”_

Sherlock tackled John, pressing his back into the floor and covering his body with his own. John found his arms pinned above his head as Sherlock dove down to ravage his mouth once again. John’s leg pain was forgotten as he writhed in desire, legs gripping Sherlock’s hips as fire went through his veins. He could feel his heart pounding hard, trying to cope with the overage of blood in his veins. His head began to ache and he knew he was in danger of suffering from cerebral edema. He was making more blood than his body could handle, faster than it could siphon it out into his organs. Sherlock broke off the kiss and swore angrily, shifting his head to one side. He pulled on John’s hair and bit down on his throat, and John felt a surge of relief as blood pulsed out of his body and into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock moaned deeply, his hips moving faster as he fed with long, hungry pulls. John shook as he wavered on the edge of shock, but Sherlock’s saliva was quickly doing its job. John felt a few hard pulls against his throat, shivers of pleasure moving through him as the man marked him as his own, and moaned in bliss. Sherlock retracted his fangs with an audible _shick_ and lapped at the thin wounds on John’s neck while he lay on the floor basking in ardour. Sherlock leaned back and undid John’s trousers and his own with shaking hands.

“S-something wrong?” John slurred, high from VS and drunk on pleasure. He was achingly hard and just wanted to _come_ already, but Sherlock showing signs of physical distress was alarming to him.

“You are absolutely addictive, John Watson. No matter which of us passes muster in that regard from a medical standpoint,” Sherlock panted.

“I didn’t take my meds today,” John slurred, “Forgot. Nothing in my system.”

“I noticed,” Sherlock replied, “But I was speaking of _this_.”

So saying, Sherlock leaned over John’s body and gripped both their cocks in his hand, giving them both a firm stroke. They moaned together and John struggled to hold himself still so Sherlock could stroke their cocks in tandem. He lifted a shaking hand and clasped their members as well, joining Sherlock’s motions so they could both feel the caress of the other’s hands. Sherlock moaned, his voice sinfully deep and absolutely beautiful. John gasped and shuddered as his cock swelled and then released across his torso. Sherlock groaned as he stroked John through his climax. He leaning back and used John’s lax digits, held firmly in his own hand, to bring himself off with several quick jerks. John sighed in pleasure as several hot spurts painted his chest and stomach. _This_ was what he’d been longing for with Mary; satisfaction that went beyond the carnal, something savage and utterly primal. Sherlock may not have penetrated him with anything besides his teeth- yet- but he’d still taken him completely and fully.

John lay on the floor and simply let himself float, smiling softly up at the ceiling. Something hot and warm moved across his body and it took him a moment to realize Sherlock was slowly licking the spunk from his body. He reached down with his clean hand and stroked Sherlock’s curls.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” John sighed.

“As have I,” Sherlock spoke softly, moving up to press a gentle kiss to his cheek before returning to his task.

“Do you get sustenance from that as well?”

“Technically I can get sustenance from most liquids created by humans,” Sherlock chuckled, “Some have more benefits than others.”

“Most liquids?” John frowned.

“Saliva, milk, blood, and… yes, the other one you’re thinking of.”

“Ew.”

“It’s sterile,” Sherlock moved up his body and lay across him, stroking John’s hair as he shrugged indifferently, “But I’ve never enjoyed the taste.”

“But you tried it,” John made a face.

“I make it a habit to try most things in life once,” Sherlock chuckled, “It has gotten me into untold levels of trouble.”

Sherlock pulled John’s sticky hand to his mouth and lapped at it, sliding his tongue in between John’s fingers while making eye contact with him.

“That’s a bit hot,” John whispered.

“Yes, I’m very sexy,” Sherlock stated plainly, as if this was simply another fact amongst his collection. John chuckled and Sherlock pressed a kiss to his lips. John could taste the copper of his blood on Sherlock’s lips, but the man pulled away before he could slide his tongue into his mouth, “Enough, John. You’ve already had more than I should have allowed today.”

Sherlock pulled away and put out his hand to help John up. John hesitated and then accepted it, standing upright with very little pain. It seemed his psychosomatic limp had returned from whence it came. Sherlock smiled when he saw John putting weight on both legs and then motioned for him to return to his seat. John sat down and Sherlock sat opposite, his fingers going into his thinking pose.

“We got lucky this time. You were too distracted by the case to take your medication. Next time we might not be so fortunate.”

“I can stop taking it,” John replied, “It’s not like I’m going to need it to survive if you’re giving me VS.”

“Not in those doses, no, but the whole point was to _ween you down_.”

“I thought the whole point was for me to become your donor?” John asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes a moment, and when he opened them his face was as composed as always. John felt he’d missed something in those few seconds they were closed, “Is that what you want?”

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

“I need to hear it, John. You’ve rejected me more than once. Will you be mine?”

“Yes,” John stated succinctly, “A thousand times over, yes.”

“Then we throw out the medication, with the exception of the antibiotics. They won’t harm me and I want to make sure you’re healthy. If you are in pain you can take paracetamol without harming me.”

“It mostly itches,” John shrugged, “I’m thinking of getting a tattoo to cover it. Would that be a problem?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, “I’d like to properly mark you in a week or so.”

John swallowed hard. His mark from Mary had been awful, “Okay.”

“It _will_ be painful,” Sherlock replied softly, “Will you still allow it?”

“Yes.”

“I can dull the pain with pleasure.”

“I know,” John nodded.

“Then it’s settled. Once you’re fully recuperated we’ll make it official.”

“Good,” John nodded.

“You’re very…” Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes, “Solemn.”

“No, no I’m not,” John replied, shifting a bit, “I’m just thinking on all of this.”

Sherlock studied him in silence a moment, and then in a very serious voice stated, “I require cuddling.”

“Sorry?” John blinked in surprise.

“I require cuddling, John,” Sherlock stated firmly, “Preferably after sex but also at random times when I’m frustrated or bored.”

“That’s… good? Yeah, good. Okay. So. Couch or bed?” John asked.

Sherlock looked skyward as he gave that apparently very complicated matter some due consideration.

“Being that it’s not quite supper time I think we’ll adjourn to the couch.”

“Couch it is,” John replied, suppressing a smirk.

John rose and headed for the couch, putting up his feet on the table and motioning for Sherlock to join him as he pulled down the afghan from the back. Sherlock came to join him, curling up those miles of limbs and snuggling into John’s side with his head on his shoulder. John tossed an end of the blanket over him and wrapped his arm around his shoulder. He laid his head back and sighed in contentment. _This_ was what he’d needed, and he didn’t even care at the moment if Sherlock’s demand was a ruse to provide for John’s needs or an honest need of his own. He was just glad to have the man close to him. They fell asleep like that for a good hour until Mrs. Hudson came upstairs with a bit of roast and vegetables on two plates and woke them up for their repast. She gave them a sweet smile and patted Sherlock’s head as if he were a puppy before leaving them to their supper.


End file.
